


In the Hands of the Enemy

by Control_Room, Random_ag



Series: Tortured Tales [2]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Choices, Decapitation, Guillotine, Kidnapping, Minor panic, Minor panic attack, Murder, Pick who dies, Psychological Torture, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Henry and Norman find themselves in a game of Russian Roulette, but neither has the gun.
Relationships: Joey Drew/Henry Stein (implied/past)
Series: Tortured Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023520
Kudos: 3





	In the Hands of the Enemy

Henry’s head spun wildly. His whole body ached with a stiffness, especially his arms - which were, interestingly enough, behind his back. He pulled, and a voice said, “Not so rough, eh!”

“Norm… Norman?” Henry asked, desperately trying to look over his shoulder. “Is that you? Where are we? Are we tied up? Oh god, have I - have we been kidnapped?!”

“Calm down, kid,” Norman soothed, despite him being less than at ease facing the current events. “So you’re the unlucky fellow stuck over with me. As for your questions, I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know the answers: yes, this is me; we’re in the studio for some reason; yes we are tied up; and judging by the fact we both had to be knocked out cold to be brought here, I’d say the answer is yes, we were kidnapped. No clue why or by whom, though.”

None of the older man's words brought the doctor any solace on their situation. As a matter of fact, they might have just made it worse.

“I don’t feel good,” Henry mumbled, his stomach queasy. “I think I might throw up.”

“It’s okay,” Norman chuckled. “I feel not too great myself.”

“I don’t want to die,” Henry nearly laughed hysterically. “I don’t want to die, especially not _here._ WALLY! Damnit, he usually stays late, WALLY! What the fuck is the time?! I don’t want to die here!”

“It's nine o'clock.”

The voice came to their ears with an icy, nonchalant calm. It made their hair stand on its end, as rigid as steel wire.

“Fuuuuuck,” Henry breathed out, turning red and flustered from far too much, fear flooding his senses. The memory of their last encounter surged to the forefront of his head, vastly uncomfortable as his face was not shy of showing. He just hoped that Joey would not think his flush was from anything having to do with attraction; in fact, Joey had been making him more and more disconcerted by the time he left the studio. “What the hell is going on here, Joey? Get us out of here. I don’t care if you’re the person that brought us here, let us out.”

The man's brown eyes sharpened as they turned to slivers under his smile, a curve on his face that was anything but comforting. He seemed less than grimly amused by Henry's words, as if the doctor had just told him a delightfully dark joke. He took a step further after looking over the former animator’s face, smiled a brilliant grin, and kicked between Henry’s legs, watching with a pleased expression as he squirmed and jolted away from the touch.  
  


“D-don’t touch me,” Henry hissed, shuddering. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

An anguished rumble left the gargantuan thing that was the Machine, mere feet away from them where they were bound on a bridge leading to its maw. 

Joey turned to it: his posture seemed to almost challenge the creature of ink, wood and metal as he stood before it unfazed by its groans and hisses.

“What's the matter?” he apostrophed in a coo to the abyss, a hunter playfully poking a wounded lion's head with the muzzle of his shotgun. “Does it bother you? That I am so close to him? That I can just -”

He kicked again. Henry nearly jumped to his feet, dragging Norman with him, chair and rope and all, just to get away from Joey, his curse almost drowning out Joey’s groan. Almost.

The Machine howled low, almost a pleading noise, dragged out and slowly fading into silence.

Joey laughed.

“Shall we up the ante? Henry? Norman?”

He circled around the two men, deliberate, studying their faces. The doctor avoided his gaze at all costs; the projectionist’s hard eyes were telling him to cut the bullshit already if he did not want to get pummeled into the wall. He found the man's resolve hilarious.

“Let's play some russian roulette, how about that?”

A grumbling roar rose from under his feet, begging him to stop, to not go any further, to eat his words.

“Either you make this _dashing rogue,_ ” his grin grew larger and wicked as he pronounced those last two words, eyes locked on Henry's strawberry blond curls, “a perfect little dancing demon…”

(A horrid cacophony arose from beneath, furious, rebelling against even the simple idea of that being a possibility.)

“... Or take this nosy, nosy snooper's head,” and he stared into Norman’s defiang eyes, “and slam a projector in its place.”

The Machine raged and fought against its chains, against its unmoving body, and it cried out until its voice was sore, but Joey paid no heed. Still it whimpered pathetically as it burned its own energies out with its useless struggle, still hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, the cruel man that had taken its name and place had a heart just like it did.

What an imagination, this Machine. Henry looked over his shoulder at it, desperate for an assurance.

“Choose.” Joey ordered calmly.

The Machine whined and sobbed, tendrils of ink reaching to the walking gun with pleading tremors.

“Listen to you, how sentimental.” he crooned. His nails dug into both of the tied up men’ shoulders like miniature daggers, earning hisses of pain, and yanked them away like talons taking off from their roost: “I said _choose_ . Or do you want _me_ to do the dirty work for you? I'm quite the greedy man, they say - like I can't hear them, especially this one. Oh, how he talks. But if I truly am, oh, so greedy, wouldn't it be in character for me to choose both?”

The tendrils shook in anguish with a shrill plead, like a dying prey’s desperate call.

“Then choose!” Joey snarled, hitting the side of Norman’s head with a palm. “And quickly!”

“Henry, you want to live, right?” Norman asked softly. Henry only sobbed, overwhelmed. Under them, the ink turned and churned and coiled, sobbing along with him. “Take me, then, whatever you are. Henry’s young, got a family to take care of. I’ve got years under my belt. My family’s taken care of.”

The Machine cried. Its chains clanged weakly as if a head had been shaking.

“What a sweet speech.” Joey pretended to wipe away a tear, then turned into a snarl. “Won't save either of you if I don't get my answer. You know that, right, Polk?”

“By all means, fuck yourself and burn in hell.”

“How considerate, to wish me the full experience.”

The Machine groaned. It fought through its own tears, and for every single second before, after and as it spoke, it wished it had never answered that horrible question.

The words wrote themselves on the walls, “Cannot take live sacrifice.’

“I know, baby doll,” Joey laughed, “But I’m letting you take the choice cut, see! So just touch the one you want, and I’ll take care of it. Go ahead.”

It took hours. At least, so it seemed for them. The tendril snaking towards the chosen sacrifice was slow, spelling ‘I’m sorry’ over and over as it twisted.

Norman took deep breaths: “It's not your fault,” he whispered at the Machine, gentle, kind, sweet, so very sweet: “It's not your fault.” as the ink curled around his ankle and leaned heavily against it, begging for forgiveness that had been bestowed upon him before even the choice had been made.

“Well, now that that’s done,” Joey took Shawn’s knife from his pocket, and sliced Norman free. “Going to go the french route and say, c’est la vie.”

Before the older man could react, he found himself dragged back, arms still tied behind his back, and then he was forced to his knees, his neck held in a wooden cusp. 

“Took me a while to get this thing functioning,” Joey remarked, slotting the upper bar in place. “But don’t worry, the blade is sharp. I tested it. Sit tight, Norman. Henry, are you ready for the show?”

“You’re sick,” Henry spat, tears dripping down his face. “You’re so sick and messed up. You piece of shit, you manipulative bastard, you son of a bitch. Stop this right now.”

“Keep your eyes open, Henry,” Joey cheerfully remarked. “Or else I’ve got a bullet with a kiss and your name on it.” 

“Norman, I-” Henry sobbed, trying to look away, but found Joey’s hand reaching into his pocket whenever he tried. “Norman, I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this.”

“But I do,”Joey smiled, and pulled the rope, sending the guillotine into action. Henry winced as the thud rattled the floor, a body going limp and something falling into the ink below. The ink bellowed in agony. “That went smoothly. Aw, Henry, don’t cry.”

“Y-you cut his h-h-head off,” Henry whimpered. “You killed Norman….”

“Do you need a ride home?” Joey offered. Henry shook his head, trying to scoot away. “Well, that’s too bad.”

Joey cut him free.

Henry did not think. 

He ran, and did not look back.


End file.
